


Kiss With A Fist

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Updated Daily: 6 Day Story), 5 Times Plus 1, Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt Brock Rumlow, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Protective Jack Rollins, Protective STRIKE Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-28 21:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12615496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Five times Brock explained the bruises away and one time he couldn't.





	1. Jack Rollins

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This story deals with domestic abuse. You have been warned.

The first time Brock showed up late to a briefing with a split lip Jack just dismissed it as a sparring session that had gotten a little rough.

STRIKE was an elite force of vicious fighters and they trained just as hard. It wasn’t uncommon to walk off the mats sporting scrapes and bruises and the occasional black eye. So Jack said nothing as Brock slid into a chair at the back of the room and tried not to be noticed as Rogers continued the briefing.

It was a few weeks later when Jack noticed Brock walking around the Triskelion with a bruise up the side of his eye and across his brow bone. It looked like someone had backhanded him across the face and it looked fresh and sore. Jack frowned. It was first thing in the morning, too early to have been a sparring accident. And Brock hadn’t had it the night before after mustering out.

“That’s quite the shiner,” Jack drawled as he and Brock checked their weapons upon entering the practice range.

He grasped Brock’s chin, turning the man’s face to have a closer look.

Brock froze under his hand, muscles going tense before he slapped Jack’s hand away with a growled “Fuck off.” Jack frowned, seeing something flash through the man’s eyes as he turned away but unsure what it meant.

“Well, excuse me for giving a shit,” Jack muttered, moving up to one of the lanes.

If Brock was extra vicious on the range, snapping clips into place with extra vigour and unloading them with brutal accuracy, Jack didn’t say anything. They all had their ways of releasing tension, just as they all had bad days. Their job was tough and left unseen scars that no medic could fix. 

It wasn’t Jack’s place to judge how someone dealt with their problems. He usually drank, fought, or fucked his own away so he really couldn't comment on healthy coping mechanisms. “Come on,” Brock said as they turned over their weapons about an hour later. “Let’s grab a beer.”

He eyed the other man’s face out of the corner of his eye as they walked towards the elevators. Was it his imagination or did Brock’s step falter ever so slightly when he caught him watching?

The dark haired man huffed. “Some drunk asshole was outside my apartment last night, spoiling for a fight,” he said gruffly. Jack’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “And he got past your guard?” Jack questioned in disbelief.

“Piss off. I wasn’t expecting it,” Brock growled, shoving Jack on the shoulder.

Jack snorted and shoved back, glad that Brock seemed to be back to his normal self.

 

 


	2. The Team

Mercer was a little worried. It was the fifth time that in two months Rumlow had shown up for training or briefing sporting busted lips and bruised cheekbones. She knew he wasn’t getting those bruises from them. Sure, they trained hard but she had never seen Rumlow take a hit so hard his eyebrow split open.

  
Murphy wasn’t one who was considered to be the most observant person, however even he noticed that Rumlow seemed to be sporting more and more injuries in the casual setting. He was used to the man coming home from missions sporting bumps and bruises, they all were. It was part of the job. But this was different.

  
McKinnon, while having an extremely violent job, had a zero tolerance policy for _domestic_ violence. Her baby sister had the habit of dating assholes and every once in a while, she’d date an asshole who liked to get physical. McKinnon knew the signs that went beyond the obvious. Beyond the bruises. And so when she saw Rumlow flinching ever so slightly from the hand Collins clapped on his shoulder, she felt a flush of concern tinged with disbelief.

  
Collins had a major in psychology with specialization in psychotrauma and PTSD. That was something he didn’t tell anyone on his team because that was definitely not how you made friends with people riddled with traumatic experiences. STRIKE was a front line task force, often dealing with horrific situations so it was good to have someone with his training on the Alpha Team. And Rumlow was starting to worry him.

 

“Hey, you guys see the Commander’s face?” Mercer said one afternoon when the four of them were eating lunch in the cafeteria. She was referring to the split lip Rumlow had been boasting that morning. “What is it, like the third this month?”

“He isn’t getting them from us in training,” Murphy said around a mouthful of sandwich. “Is he sparring with those undercover assholes again?” Mercer shook her head. “Naw, Parrish said he hadn’t seen Rumlow in months.” There was a long pause in the conversation.

“We’re not honestly thinking that….,” McKinnon started hesitantly. “I don’t know…you think someone’s…,” she faltered, unable to really say the words out-loud. Silence echoed around the table before Murphy broke it with a rude snort.

“What, you think someone’s been knocking the Commander around?” Murphy scoffed in disbelief. “Have you seen Rumlow? Hell, we’ve all sparred with the man. There’s just no way. No way!”

“I know, I know,” McKinnon said exasperated, toying with her salad. “But something is going on with him. Collins?” She said, turning to the sandy haired man who up until this point had been listening quietly. “You’re good at getting people to talk about shit. Talk to him?” Collins rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement.

 

It was a few weeks later before Collins got the chance and it presented itself as both men got up to get coffee before a briefing. “Commander,” Collins said as he pulled down a mug at the back of the briefing room. The other man grunted in response as he poured himself a mug. The man turned to pass the pot to Collins, throwing the side of his face into the light. Collins hissed in reaction to the nasty bruise that bloomed across Rumlow’s cheekbone in mottled purple and green.

“That looks sore,” he commented, pouring himself coffee. “What happened? You spar with Westfahl again?” The junior agent had the reputation of being an unpredictable and clumsy fighter. Rumlow chuckled, stirring in an absolutely massive amount of sugar into his coffee.

“Something like that,” the man commented, tossing the spoon in the sink with a clatter. “Don’t tell me you joined a fight club,” Collins said with a chuckle, added cream to his coffee. His eyebrows raised when Rumlow shrugged. “Maybe,” the man confessed.

“Seriously, man?” He said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Rumlow shrugged. “Just blowing off some extra steam, yah know?” He said casually, almost too casually. Collins frowned.

Rumlow was a vicious fighter on the field and in the training ring, but once he was off the clock he left that side of him behind. He had talked to Collins about it on a drunken New Years Eve at Mercer’s place last year. He had said how he liked to categorize his life and the fighting was part of the job. He left that side of himself at work and didn’t take it home with him. He trained and sparred at the Triskelion, with the team.

To hear that Rumlow was fighting voluntarily outside of work was surprising to Collins and made him a little worried. It meant that the man was working through some serious shit.

"Those things can get sketchy, man," Collins said with a worried glance. Rumlow snorted. ”Jesus, you make it sound like some illegal cage match, Collins," he drawled with a wry smile. ”Still,” Collins insisted. "You know you can ask any of us if you need to blow off that extra steam." Rumlow nodded, swallowing thickly. Collins could see his Adam's apple bobbing.

Collins clapped a hand on his shoulder as Rogers called the briefing to order. Collins watched with a worried eye as Rumlow slide into a chair next to Rollins. He dropped down next to Mercer who gave him a look, flicking her gaze between him and Rumlow with a raised eyebrow. Collins just shrugged. He wasn't sure if anything had been accomplished.

Two months passed and Rumlow had not come back to work with any unexplained bruises, so the team counted it as a win. And if Rumlow sought Collins or Mercer out more frequently for a sparring session, neither complained about being too busy or too tired. If it kept Rumlow out some sketchy fight club situation, they were more than happy to oblige.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea popped into my head one day and before you know it, I had written it! Figured I'd share it with you and tie everyone over while working on the next chapter to You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three


	3. Steve Rogers

Steve took the wellbeing of the men and women under his command very seriously. He planned ops with careful precision and with multiple backup plans to insure STRIKE’s safety and he implemented that even when not on mission.

Just last month he had sent Agent Rollins home after he came down with the stomach flu and spent half the briefing in the bathroom puking his guts out. Steve had waged wars that had taken less energy than convincing the man to go home.

If an agent under his command was struggling, he would do anything and everything in his power to help. So when Brock Rumlow stumbled into the briefing looking absolutely wrecked, Steve felt warning bells go off in the back of his mind.

He kept an eye on Rumlow for the rest of the briefing, watching as he struggled to stay awake. He saw Rollins prod him in the ribs when Rumlow’s head began to loll against his hand. The STRIKE Commander pulled away from Rollins’ touch with a grimace, pain darkening his eyes. Steve saw the flash of concern that crossed Rollins’ face and felt his own worry deepen.

If Rollins was concerned, Steve definitely should be.

“Commander Rumlow,” he called at the end of the briefing as the rest headed out to gear up and get on the quinjet. “A word, please?”

He saw Rollins throw a glance between the two, lingering in the doorway until Rumlow discretely waved him away. Not for the first time Steve marvelled at the two of them. They had apparently been working together since their early days with the Marines, long before SHIELD, and it showed. Steve had never seen two men so in sink, on or off the battlefield.

Not since him and Bucky.

“Cap,” Rumlow drawled as he stood at ease, hands clasped loosely behind his back in a way that somehow came off as a little mocking. Steve stifled a sigh. He worked well with the man, but he didn’t like him much. It had been a difficult transition when Steve had come in and taken a position of authority over Rumlow. He knew that the resentment ran deep.

Regardless of his personal feelings for the man, Steve would never wish him ill. Now that he was closer, he could see the deep circled bruised under Rumlow’s eyes and the shadows of what looked like a fading bruise danced across the hairline at his temple.

“Is everything alright?” He asked gently, eyes sharp as they took in the man’s reaction. Rumlow shifted his weight, a wary look in his green eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Cap.” He said crisply.

He caught Steve eyeing his temple and must have put two and two together. “Murphy,” he drawled with a smirk, pointing to the fading bruise. “You know how clumsy the kid can be. Tossed a bag over his shoulder without looking behind him. Had a water bottle in it.” Steve’s eyes narrowed but he couldn't find any fault in the explanation or the way Rumlow told it.

“You look exhausted,” Steve said instead. “You could barely stay awake during briefing.”

“Won’t happen again,” Rumlow said, stiffening. “I don’t care about that,” Steve said briskly. “I care about the fact that we are about to fly half way around the world and I need to know I can rely on you to watch my back.”

“I’d never do anything to risk the lives of the team,” the man replied acidly, eyes narrowing.

Steve sighed. He hadn’t meant to insult the man, he was just worried. He took a step towards the man, alarmed to find that Rumlow unconsciously shifted back to keep the same distance between the two of them. Steve swallowed thickly.

“Just…try and get some sleep on the plane?” He asked in a tone that made it clear it wasn't a request, regardless of how it was phrased. “Yessir,” Rumlow said crisply, eyes dark and unreadable. Steve nodded in dismissal, watching the man turn smarty on his heel and stalk towards the door.

“And Rumlow?” He called out on a whim as the man reached the door. He watched the older man pause and looked back, hand perched on the handle like he was ready to flee.

“My door is always open,” Steve said kindly, leaving it a little open ended.

“Sure Cap,” was all Rumlow said, a forced looking smirk on his face. “Whatever you say,” he said as he slipped through the door and was gone.

Steve took a breath, concern bubbling in his stomach like acid and not feeling reassured in the slightest.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!


	4. Maria Hill

Maria Hill did not like most of the STRIKE agents, but she liked Commander Rumlow and his Second Jack Rollins the least. Commander Rumlow had rubbed her the wrong way since the first time she met him. He was brash and loud and obnoxious, with an arrogant glint in his eye and a temper that was quick to flare. He was reckless with his own life, although never with the men under him or she would have had him out on his ass in an instant.

Rollins on the other hand was a slow burn. He was calm and quiet and steady, the tempering hand to Rumlow’s hot head. He was calculating, slow to anger, a calm and silent shadow. That’s what Maria found so off-putting. He was a silent predator, the way his eyes would watch you across the room, tracking you wherever you went.

Besides all that, Maria had to begrudgingly admit that the two of them made a phenomenal team. STRIKE’s success rate since the two had taken it over spoke for itself. That didn’t mean she had to like them.

Not that she would ever admit it, but she had actually grown used to Rumlow’s brash comments and Rollins’ quiet presence around the Triskelion command centre. They were important parts in the well-oiled machine that was SHIELD.

It was midday when she ran full bore into Rumlow, who had suddenly stepped out from the washroom without looking where he was going. The stack of files she had been carrying exploded into the air, scattering across the hallway.

“Jesus Christ,” Maria snapped, bending down to scoop up the errant papers. “Aw shit, sorry, sorry,” Rumlow said as he crouched to help. “Watch where you’re going,” Maria grumbled as she snatched papers up into a pile. She had spent all morning on these fucking reports and now they were an absolute mess and…

Her hands slowed and stopped. Rumlow’s long sleeves had gotten pushed up as he gathered the papers, baring his wrists and the shadowy bruises that circled around them. Rumlow faltered, seeing the trajectory of her eyes. He dropped the papers into her pile, yanking his sleeves down over the marks.

Maria’s eyes snapped to Rumlow’s face and blanched and the broken look of panic that flashed across Rumlow’s dark eyes. She blinked and the look was gone, so fast that she wondered if she had only imagined it. The man’s guard had slammed firmly into place and he pulled that infuriating smirk of his.

“Things got a little kinky last night, if you catch my drift,” he drawled with a lewd wink.

He dumped the last papers into her lap. “Sorry again, Commander,” he threw over his shoulder as he retreated down the hall and disappearing from sight.

Maria stood slowly, brow furrowed in thought as she stared down the now empty hallway. Regardless of the man’s cool manner and suggestive words, she had seen the way his hands had trembled when he handed over the last of the papers.

 

 


	5. Natasha Romanoff

Everything had gone from zero to a hundred real quick. The mission had been very straight forward on paper but now they were in the middle of a firefight. Natasha was pinned down behind a pile of shipping crates as bullets splintered the wood around her.

Steve’s voice cracked through the coms as he organized STRIKE. Natasha just focused on not getting shot. “Romanoff!” A voice cracked above the gunshots and something heavy crashed into her side just as weapons fire splintered into the crates right where she had been.

Natasha landed heavily behind another stack of pallets, Rumlow landing partially beside, partially on top of her. He rolled to the side with a grimace of pain. He brought a hand to his lower abdomen, right at the small space where his tac vest ended. It came away bloody.

“Aw shit,” he muttered.

“Rumlow’s hit,” Natasha snapped over the coms, yanking open the man’s vest pockets to pull out a couple pressure bandages. “Where?” Rollins’ voice cracked in her ear.

“South corner, by the docks.” Natasha spun on her heels, sending a volley of gunfire over the pallets. There was a scream but she didn’t focus on it, turning back to Rumlow. She got the pad securely wrapped around his abdomen before giving him a quick pat down.

Her hands came away red as she got near his shoulder. “Damnit,” she muttered, as she pressed another pressure bandage around the man’s arm. Suddenly, Natasha felt herself being yanked forward and to the side, practically across Rumlow’s lap. Gunshots rang out above her ear and a muffled scream echoed through the warehouse, followed by a dull thud.

Rumlow fell back with a groan, his sidearm clenched in his hand. Natasha shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in her ears as she got back to work. “Twice in a row,” he said with a pain-laced smirk. “Let’s not make it a habit,” Natasha said wryly, tying the bandage tight.

Just as she finished the cavalry arrived and within moments the pirates had been dispatched and Rollins was kneeling next to Rumlow, helping him to his feet. “Easy,” he murmured as Rumlow bite off a yelp.

Natasha silently slipped under the man’s other arm, helping to take some of his weight. Rollins threw her a grateful look and together they helped Rumlow out into the quinjet.

Natasha sat nearby, watching McKinnon cut away Rumlow’s STRIKE jacket to reveal the damage while Mercer packed his abdomen more securely. It was a through and through to his bicep, now bleeding sluggishly but it wasn’t the gunshot wound that drew Natasha’s eyes.

It was the row of shadowy bruises decorating the man’s muscled bicep. Evenly spaced and perfectly round, they looked like fingerprints. Like someone had grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise.

She glanced around the quinjet, taking in the other STRIKE members. No one seemed to be bothered, or to even notice, until her eyes alighted on Rollins. The muscles in the man’s jaw jumped as he saw the bruises and his eyes darkened. He seemed livid but also a little sad. Natasha filed away that information for later as the quinjet roared across the sky.

 

 

Hours later, one debrief, one hot shower, and fresh change of clothes later, Natasha strode through the halls of the hospital and slipped into room 224. Rumlow was cocooned in blankets, fresh from surgery to remove the bullet from his abdomen. Various tubes and wires ran to a variety of machines. A heart monitor beeped away quietly in the background.

“Hey,” she said softly, watching the man blink sluggishly. The anesthetic was still wearing off and his movements were sloppy and uncoordinated. He frowned, reaching for the cannula in his nose with a confused look.

“No, leave that alone,” Natasha scolded gently, pulling his hands away. Rumlow coughed roughly and she grabbed the cup of water sitting nearby, helping him to a couple of sips. “Thanks,” he whispered, lying back against the pillows.

“I’m the one who should be saying thank you,” Natasha said dryly. Rumlow shrugged, flushing a little. “Just doing my job,” he said. “Did these happen while ‘just doing your job’ too?” Natasha asked, placing a hand on Rumlow’s arm and turning it to reveal the bruises she had seen earlier. Brock’s eyes darkened and he swallowed nervously.

The beeping of the heart rate monitor sped up as she watched the dark haired man intently.

“Happened earlier this week when we were in Oslo,” Rumlow said steadily. “Rollins yanked me out of the way of a sniper. Guy doesn’t know his own strength,” he said with a light chuckle. Natasha wasn’t convinced. Even if the man hadn’t been hooked up to the heart monitor, she wouldn’t have believed him.

Before Natasha could call him out on it, a man strode into the room. He was tall, even taller than Steve, with dark hair and darker eyes. Broad shoulders and chest boasted well defined muscles and the air of a soldier. Natasha would bet Marines or Seals.

“Brock,” the man said, eyes flicking from Rumlow to Natasha. She felt Rumlow tense under her hand and the heart rate monitor’s beeping tripled in tempo. “Ryan,” Brock whispered. “Wha…what are you doing here?”

“I’m your emergency contact, remember?” Ryan said, crossing the room to stand at the other side of the bed. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend,” he said, warily eyeing Natasha and the hand she still had on Rumlow’s arm.

“Natasha,” she said smoothly, holding her hand out to the man. “We work together.”

“Ryan, his boyfriend,” the man said briskly, almost territorially as he shook her hand in a crushing grip. So he was one of those kind of guys, Natasha mused. She chanced a glance down at Rumlow who had gone quiet. She could feel his muscles radiating tension and his eyes were darting around yet refusing to look at either her or Ryan.

It might be because he had just been outed, but Natasha had a nagging feeling it was more than that.

“Take it easy, Commander,” Natasha said, squeezing his arm briefly.

“And nice to meet you,” she said to Ryan before taking her leave. She glanced over her shoulder once at the door, seeing Ryan pulling up a chair beside the bed. Rumlow gave a weak smile as Ryan placed a hand on his arm, but Natasha could see he still hadn’t relaxed.

She could care less if Rumlow had a boyfriend, but there was just something about the man that set Natasha’s teeth on edge and she was never one to discount her instincts.

 

 

 

 


	6. +1: Jack Rollins

Jack was freezing and more than a little pissed off. He had been outside Brock’s apartment for almost ten minutes now, waiting for the asshole to buzz him in. Brock knew he was going to swing by to pick up the tac gear Brock had borrowed and now the bastard wasn’t even answering his phone.

Jack was about to give up and leave when an elderly lady shuffled through the lobby. He held the door open for her with a friendly smile before slipped inside. The building was old enough not to need a fob for the elevators, just the outer doors. Jack stepped out onto Brock’s floor and made his way to his apartment.

He heard raised voices coming from the other side of the door and frowned. While muffed by the walls and unable to pick out individual words, they sounded heated. One voice in particular sounded very enraged and it wasn’t Brock’s voice. Jack debated just leaving, but didn’t feel right doing so until he at least knew Brock was okay.

Just as Jack raised his fist to knock, an awful shattering crash echoed from within the apartment.

Jack didn’t even hesitate. He backed up and slammed his heavy boot into the door just under the handle. The wood splintered and it flew open, security chain snapping as Jack strode into the apartment, alert and ready for anything.

It took seconds to assess the room and even less time to figure out what had happened.

His eyes snapped to Brock, lying on the floor surrounded by the shattered remains of the glass coffee table and then up to the hulking man looming nearby. Jack felt a cold rage clench around his chest.

The man whirled on Jack as soon as the door busted open, face red with a bruise blooming on his cheek. Jack could smell the alcohol clear across the room. His eyes widened with a hint of fear as Jack strode across the room towards him, murder in his eyes.

“What the fuck—,” was all the man could get out before Jack cracked his fist across the man’s face.

The man stumbled with a curse, but Jack didn’t give him a chance to recover. He slammed his knee up into the man’s gut, winding him. As he gasped, Jack grabbed a handful of hair and smashed his knee up into the man’s face with a solid thwack. The man’s head snapped back, blood pouring from his nose as he stumbled backwards.

He recovered quickly, most likely a military guy of some sort. He slammed his fist hard enough into Jack’s face to cause his head to whip to the side but Jack just used the momentum, turning into a reverse hook kick that caught the man square in the chest. The blow threw him back into the bookshelf, his head cracking hard against a shelf.

For all the man was well trained and a good fighter, his height and weight was a hindrance. Jack, for all he was tall, was faster and more nimble, striking with precision and speed while the other man just relied on throwing his weight behind his hits.

It was over moments later, ending with Jack planting a solid punch across the man’s face and he was out, sprawled ungracefully across the floor. Jack huffed a steadying breath and then turned to Brock, who was struggling to extract himself from the remnants of the coffee table.

The glass crunched under his boots as he crouched at Brock’s side.

“Stop, stop,” he scolded as Brock tried to get up, pressing his hands further into the glass. The man’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, blood dripping from both his nose and mouth. Blood was splattered across the floor and smeared up his arms, with pinpricks of red smattered the side of his face and neck.

Jack slipped his arms under Brock’s knees, thankful for the thick leather jacket he was wearing. The dark haired man winced as Jack heaved him into his arms bridle style. He carefully carried Brock out of the mess, keeping an eye on the other man who was now struggling to his knees.

“I knew it,” Jack heard the man snarl nastily after them. “I just knew it. You fucking whore,” he snarls, blood dripping down his chin. “How long had you been bending over for him, huh?”

“Jack, put me down,” Brock mumbled, shoving against Jack’s shoulder, blinking owlishly. “You leave now, don’t think I’ll be here when you come back. You hear me?” The man on the ground spat. Jack felt rage bubble up in his chest as he felt Brock flinch against him.

“Jack, stop. Fuckin’ put me down,” Brock protested weakly. “Not gonna happen,” Jack said firmly and he crossed towards the door. “Brock!” The man screamed after them but Jack didn’t slow as he carried the injured man out into the hallway and into the elevator.

Once in the elevator Brock squirmed enough that Jack had to relent and put the man down. He sniffed, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move to try to get away from Jack’s steadying hand, didn’t try to go back upstairs.

Thankfully they didn’t run into anyone in the lobby or out on the street. Jack loaded Brock into his truck before climbing behind the wheel. Brock didn’t say anything the entire drive and just stared blankly out the window. Jack didn’t say anything either, white knuckling the steering wheel as he struggled to keep his temper in check.

Before long they were pulling into Jack’s apartment’s underground. Jack settled Brock down on one of the kitchen chairs before digging out the first aid kit from under the sink. “You care about the shirt?” He asked as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He didn't want to pull it over Brock’s head because of all the glass. Brock shook his head, blinking numbly.

Jack swallowed thickly, pushing down the shaky rage that still bubbled under his skin. He got scissors and gently snipped the shirt off. As he pulled away the dark fabric, he could see the bruises that ghosted across Brock’s ribs.

A thick laceration ran down the length of his right forearm. Jack grabbed a gauze pad and pressed it firmly against the wound. “You’ll need stitches,” Jack said gently. “I’ll wrap it and take you to emergency.”

“No,” Brock said. “No hospitals.”

“Brock, you might have a concussion,” Jack tried but Brock interrupted him, meeting Jack’s eyes for the first time that night. “No fucking hospitals,” he snapped. Jack swallowed at the empty, hollow look reflected in those dark eyes. “Okay,” he said softly. “But you still need stitches.”

“Then stitch it,” Brock said flatly. Jack sighed and fished out a needle and thread. He cleaned the wound and stitched it as quickly as he could before wrapping it firmly with gauze.

He then carefully went over every inch of Brock’s skin, pulling shards of glass from all over his arms, neck, and face. He was as gentle as he could be but Brock still flinched as he fished out shards from across his cheekbone and along his neck. He frowned as he saw Brock’s eyes struggling to stay focused.

He gently felt through Brock’s thick hair, worried about concussion. Brock gasped, flinching away from the touch as Jack’s hand came away bloody. “Shit,” Jack muttered, standing and moving to Brock’s side. He carefully parted his hair, revealing a shallow bloody gash across the side of Brock’s skull.

Jack sighed, already knowing the answer if he tried to insist Brock go to hospital. He snatched up a towel from a pile of clean laundry from the couch. He wrapped it around Brock’s shoulders and picked up an irrigation syringe and saline solution. Brock hissed as Jack carefully cleaned the wound.

“This’ll need stitches too,” Jack said quietly. Brock grunted. “Just get on with it.” Jack made quick work, snipping off the last stitch in record time. He then ripped up a plastic bag and taped it over the gauze. He checked Brock’s pupils, much to the man’s annoyance, but they reacted well. Satisfied that if Brock did have a concussion it was a very mild one, Jack stripped off his gloves and began cleaning up the table.

He turned back, seeing Brock staring at him with a broken-glass look. “Something on my face?” he asked, noticing Brock wasn’t looking him in the eye but a little below and to the side. Something shuttered across Brock’s eyes and he turned away. “I’m gonna shower,” he said, turning away abruptly. “You know where it is,” Jack said, frowning slightly.

He waited until Brock was out of eyeshot to head over to the hall mirror where he was the bruise that had bloomed across his cheekbone where he had been punched earlier.

Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He had suspected something was going on, but never in a million years would he have thought it was something like this. He cursed under his breath, mentally kicking himself.

He should have said something long ago, should have figured it out sooner. This was his best friend for fucks sake. He’d known the man for almost half his life. He hadn’t even known Brock was gay. If he had….well, maybe everything would have been different.

He took a calming breath, composing himself before trudging into the bedroom. He pulled out a pair of his sweatpants and hoody, figuring the bigger size would be gentler on Brock’s cuts, and lay them on the chair beside the bathroom door. He then went back to the kitchen and put the kettle.

He had no fucking clue what to do now. Before, in the apartment, it had all been instinct. He had moved with purpose, calm and cool. That kinda shit he could handle, but this? This was well out of his comfort zone. He had no idea what to say or what not to say.

He had never seen Brock so unsure, so hesitant before. He had known the man for over twenty years and he had never seen him like this. Not after losing that kid in Sudan, not after watching an entire STRIKE team be blown to pieces in Bucharest, not after being captured by an anti-government faction and tortured for three days. Never.

The kettle whistled shrilly, startling him from his musings. He moved to pour himself a cup and then changed his mind, grabbing a beer from the fridge instead. By the time he had sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, he couldn't hear the shower anymore.

A moment later and he looked up to Brock padding across the room, dressed in the sweats and hoody Jack had put out.

He looked so tired.

“You need anything else?” He asked. Brock shook his head, stuffing his hands in the hoody pockets. “I should go,” Brock said softly. “You don't have to,” Jack protested but Brock just shook his head. “No, I should get home. Clean up the mess.”

Any further protests on Jack’s part were interrupted by Brock’s phone ringing. Jack watched as the shorter man pulled it from the pocket of the sweatpants and blanched as he read the caller ID. Jack didn’t have to guess to know who it was. He was up off the couch in an instant, snatching the phone from Brock’s hands.

“Jack, don’t,” Brock hissed as Jack answered it.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, you piece of shit,” he said, voice deadly calm as he dodged Brock reaching hand. “First, you’re going to lose this number. Then you’re going to pack and move to another state and if I ever see your face again, I will put a bullet through your fucking throat. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a pause, broken only by the rhythmic pulse of Jack’s heartbeat in his throat. He ignored Brock’s frantic eyes. The silence continued. Jack was beginning to wonder if the man had hung up when the words echoed in his ear. “Hope you enjoy my sloppy seconds, jackass.”

And then the line went dead.

Jack put down the phone with aggravated care, jaw muscles jumping and teeth creaking as he ground them together. “What the fuck did you just do?” Brock breathed.

“Bastard was lucky I wasn’t armed,” Jack replied heatedly, turning on Brock. “I didn’t ask you to interfere,” Brock said, jaw set stiffly and eyes guarded. “He could have killed you,” Jack snapped. “I was handling it,” the shorter man growled. “I’ve been handling it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack snapped. “Brock, he threw you through a glass table.”

“Yeah, and I deserved it,” Brock retorted, avoiding eye contact now. Jack felt like someone had just smacked him upside the head with a board. “What?” he breathed. Brock fidgeted under Jack’s disbelieving stare. “I didn’t mean…I just…I started it, okay?” he snapped, a red flush creeping up his neck. “I shoved him.”

“What, you shove him so he throws you through the fucking table?!” Jack snapped, not believing what he was hearing. “Something like that,” Brock muttered, turning away and heading towards the door. “That’s fucked,” Jack said, following. “That is seriously messed up, you get that right?”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Brock cried as he whirled on Jack, eyes over-bright.

The wrecked expression on the man’s face stopped Jack dead in his tracks. “You think I don’t know how fucked up it is? But… it wasn’t just one sided, okay?” Jack had to remind himself how to breath. It felt like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You know better than anymore I have a temper,” Brock continued quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. The guilt that pinched the shorter man’s face made Jack want to punch a hole through the wall himself.

“It wasn’t all him,” Brock whispered.

Jack didn’t believe it for a second. Sure, Brock had a temper and more than once Jack had to be the one to reel it in. But he knew Brock wasn’t capable of what he was trying to convince Jack and himself of. If nothing else, the way the man was reacting right now was proof enough.

“How long?” Jack asked. He needed to know. “How long has this been going on?” Brock said nothing, refusing to meet Jack’s eyes. “How did it start?” Jack pressed. The shorter man swallowed, crossing his arms around himself and just shook his head.

Jack had never seen Brock look so small. The man had always been larger than life, with a mischievous smirk and some sarcastic quip on his tongue. Now…he looked fragile. Jack hated that word.

“You ever hit him?” Jack asked, remembering the bruise the man had been sporting. “Yes,” Brock mumbled, cringing away. “You ever hit him _first_?” Jack said, feeling like he already knew the answer. “I…,” Brock stumbled, taking a step back. “I don’t…”

Jack took a step forward, which Brock matched, eyes darting wildly like he was looking for an escape. “I think I understand now,” Jack said, taking another step. “It'd probably start with you saying something he didn't like, which leads to an argument, which leads to him losing his temper.”

“Stop it,” Brock breathed, taking another step back. “Then he’d hit you,” Jack continued, still walking forward. “Knock you around a little, show you whose boss. Starting to sound familiar?”

“Shut up,” Brock whispered, his back bumping up agains the fridge, his body radiating tension. “Maybe you get a few hits in,” Jack continued relentlessly. “Just to try to get him to stop. But he’d alway win.”

“Don’t,” the shorter man pleaded, chest heaving. “And so you convinced yourself that it was your fault to begin with,” Jack pressed. “Because you must have done something to deserve it, right?”

“Fucking stop!” Brock cried, shoving Jack back sharply. Jack stumbled, tripping over his discarded shoes. He grunted as his back hit the ground with a solid thwack. Jack watched as Brock froze, chest heaving and eyes wide as they filled with barely veiled panic. His eyes darted to the door, which Jack was in front of as he got to his feet.

Jack raised his hands, stepping away from the door. “I won’t stop you,” Jack said. “I don’t want you to leave but I won’t stop you.” He didn’t wait to see Brock’s reaction. He headed back to the living room and sat back down on the couch. He picked up his beer and pretended to be engaged in the home reno show.

He kicked himself mentally. He should have just kept his mouth shut. He was shit at this; talking about feeling and dealing with emotions. He certainly didn't have much experience dealing with this kind of shit. Give him something to shoot and he was good. He really hoped Brock didn’t leave because he wasn't sure what he’d do if he did. 

The host of the show was just getting ready to unveil the new house to the family when a shadow crossed the TV and the couched dipped beside him. He glanced briefly across to Brock, who sat stiffly with his arms wrapped around himself.

He took a swig from his beer and then wordlessly held out the bottle to the other man, who took it without a word.

 

  
Jack must have fallen asleep because the next thing he remembered it was dark outside and some awful late night infomercial was playing on the TV. He frowned, feeling a weight on his chest and glanced down to a head of thick, dark hair.

He froze as Brock stirred in his sleep, unconsciously bringing a hand up to fist in the front of Jack’s shirt. Jack felt a small smile tug at his lips. He could get used to this. If he was being honest with himself, this was a fantasy that he had entertain on more than one occasion.

He mentally shook himself. Now was definitely not the time to dwell on that daydream.

Jack was tempted just to let Brock sleep. He looked so tired after all, but Jack knew only two well the crick the man would have in his neck if Jack let him sleep as he was. He turned the TV off and shifted, moving Brock’s head up to his shoulder. The other man blinked and then startled away, hand flying to press firmly against Jack’s chest.

“It's okay,” Jack soothed. “It’s just me.” Brock blinked owlishly. “Jackie?” He said, the nickname slipping out through sleep-slurred speech. “Yeah,” Jack said softly. “Easy does it.” He scooped an arm under Brock’s knees and lifted him up into his arms. “ ‘m not some princess,” the older man grumbled, pushing sleepily against Jack’s arms.

“Whatever you say, Sleeping Beauty,” Jack chuckled as he carried Brock to the bedroom, laying the smaller man gently down on the bed. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything,” he said softly, turning to leave. He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve and glanced back, startled.

“Th’s stupid,” Brock mumbled, unable to even keep his eyes open. “Just stay.”

Jack hesitated but relented in the end, stripping off his jeans and climbing into bed. He lay awake for a long time, just listening to the other man’s breathing. Jack’s chest tighten as he watched Brock sleep. He looked so much younger, all the lines etched by stress and pain gone smooth.

This was something else that he could definitely get used to.

 

 

  
Jack woke to early morning sunshine and an empty apartment. “Fuck,” Jack snapped, mentally kicking himself. He should have known better. He tried Brock’s cell but it went straight to voicemail.

“Fuck.”

Jack yanked on jeans, grabbing a jacket and his keys as he sprinted out the door. It took him mere minutes and a few broken steed limits before he was parking in front of Brock’s apartment.

He paused once he got to Brock’s apartment but didn't hear anything from the other side of the door, which was splintered along the side. He tried the handle, but it was locked. “Brock?” He called. No answer. He knocked again but couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door.

Moments later and Jack was hauling himself up onto the fire escape that bordered Brock’s patio. He made it to the landing, seeing Brock’s patio door open, curtains flapping in the slight wind. He was about to hop over to the patio but on a whim then glanced up and saw a familiar pair of boots hanging over the roof edge.

Jack climbed up the rest of the fire escape, carefully sitting down next to the dark haired man. Brock ignored him as he lay staring at the sky with his legs dangling over the edge.

“I borrowed your shoes,” Brock said, not looking at the taller man. “And your jacket.” He paused, holding up a bottle of dark amber liquid which had a goodly portion already missing. “And your bourbon.”

“I noticed,” Jack said dryly.

“Fuck, I'm sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this,” Brock said guiltily. “It’s fine,” Jack said softly, not knowing what else to say. “No it’s not,” Brock retorted quietly. Jack had nothing to say to that, because Brock was right. Brock sat up with a sniff, scrubbing his nose on his sleeve

“It wasn’t always like that,” Brock finally said, almost as if to himself. “We were good in the beginning. Well, I mean he did yell a lot and was more than a little possessive but I’d just yell back and the next morning it’d be fine. And then he…changed. I guess something messed him up bad. He wasn’t sleeping anymore, drinking all the time. It's not like I have the best coping mechanisms either, so who was I to judge?” Brock paused, taking another swig.

Jack watched the man’s throat bob as he swallowed. “I kept convincing myself that…I don’t know, I guess that I could fix it. But it kept getting worse and I-,” He cut himself off sharply, taking another sip. “I don’t know what I'm saying. I'm drunk,” he said stiffly, holding the bottle out to Jack. “Okay,” Jack said, taking the bottle and putting it down on the roof beside him.

Jack pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. “What are you doing?” Brock asked suspiciously. “The kids are gonna come over and clean up your apartment. _And_ ,” he said, interrupting Brock’s protest before they could even start. “I don't want to hear any arguments.” he added in a tone that brokered no room for complaints.

Brock didn't say anything but Jack could practically feel the walls being built up around the man. The silence stretched between them, heavy and yet almost comforting. A while later his phone buzzed, signalling that Mercer had arrived. He told her to come up the fire escape.

Footsteps echoed against metal as the team climbed up and into the apartment. He could hear hushed voices and then the telltale sound of glass scrapping across hardwood. The clean up had begun. Tension radiated from Brock in waves, muscles tense with anxiety.

“It’ll be fine,” Jack said softly. Brock just scoffed. “Everything will be different now,” he mumbled bitterly under his breath. "They'll treat me different, which is exactly what I didn't fucking want."

“Maybe,” Jack admitted. “But you know I got your back, no matter what.”

On a whim he reached over and placed a gentle hand on Brock’s shoulder. He felt the older man flinch under his touch and for a second Jack thought he’d pull away, but then he relaxed under Jack's touch. Maybe it was Jack's imagination but it almost felt like Brock leaned into his hand, just a little.

After a moment Brock cleared his throat, shaking off Jack’s grip. “I need a drink,” he muttered, scooting along the ledge to reach behind Jack for the bottle. He straightened, but made no move to slide back to his original spot. He took a swig, his leg brushing against Jack’s.

“Thanks,” he said, so softly that Jack wasn’t completely sure if he'd actually said it. He didn’t say anything in response, just bumped his shoulder against Brock’s.

"Oh, I think that's enough for one morning," Jack said mildly, pulling the bottle of bourbon from Brock's hands as he moved to take another sip. The dark haired man rolled his eyes, but didn't complain further. They sat quietly, shoulder to shoulder, for a long while. Finally Jack’s phone buzzed. “That’s Mercer,” Jack said. “They made breakfast. Hope you're hungry."

“Not really,” Brock said, swallowing nervously. However in the next moment, Brock’s stomach decided to vehemently protest his words. Jack smirked as a blush crept up Brock’s neck. “Come on,” Jack said, carefully jumping down from the ledge. He felt his chest tighten as he saw Brock hesitate before following.

“It’ll be fine,” Jack promised. Brock just shrugged, looking like he didn't believe that at all.

They climbed down and stepped back into the apartment, Jack a few steps behind incase Brock got any smart ideas about running again. They stepped into the living room and Jack almost bumped into the shorter man’s back, he stopped so quickly.

Jack couldn't keep a smile from tugging at his lips.

Mercer was in the kitchen, pulling a tray of steaming croissants from the oven while Collins finished putting the last of the books back on the bookshelf. The shattered glass and blood smears had been cleaned up, even the ones that had stained the back of the couch. Murphy was in the process of repainting the holes in the walls that had already been fixed with plaster. The door had been replaced as well, although Jack wasn’t sure how they had pulled that one off so quietly.

McKinnon was putting a big plate of bacon on the kitchen table next to three plates of quiche from the bakery across the street. There was also a steaming pot of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. 

“Perfect timing, boys!” Mercer said brightly, tossing the pastries into a bowl. “Thank god, I'm starving,” Murphy grumbled, sealing the paint can and moving to snatch a croissant as Mercer past.

“Paws off! You’ll get paint on them!” Mercer snapped, slapping Murphy’s stained fingers away sharply. “Ow!” he grumbled as Mercer rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a baby! And wash your hands! Honestly,” she sighed, striding to the table.

“Come on,” she urged, waving Jack and Brock over. “Before Murphy eats all the bacon.”

“Hardy har har,” Murphy grumbled. He splashed water droplets from his freshly cleaned hands in Mercer’s face, to which the blonde woman retaliated by pulling him into a headlock. Amidst the squawking and raucous laughter, Jack stole up behind Brock and clapped a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder.

“See,” Jack whispered. “I told you it’d be fine.”

If Brock was unusually quiet during the first half of the meal, no one on the team called him out on it. If their eyes flicked from the bandage on his forearm to the multiple scratches along the side of his face and the greenish-purple bruise at the corner of his mouth, they kept their comments to themselves.

Slowly Brock relaxed and stopped hiding himself in his coffee mug. And if Jack’s heart swelled when Brock’s walls came down enough to slap Murphy’s hands away from his sixth pastry, he didn’t let it show.

Okay, maybe he did a little.

 

 

 

  
_**Eight months later:** _

  
Jack was exhausted. Actually, exhausted was a gross understatement. He had just spent the last three hours in debriefing, the previous seventeen hours on a military transport flying home, and before that it had been thirty-nine hours being tracked by a drug cartel through the middle of literal nowhere because someone on their prep team had dropped the fucking ball on the intel.

So to say Jack was exhausted was a fucking understatement. His eyes were blurring and he was in desperate need of a shower and a shave, food, a stiff drink, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

He stumbled through the Triskelion halls, completely dead on his feet and seriously considering calling a cab because he was pretty sure he wasn’t fit to drive, when strong hands latched onto him from behind and yanked him into an empty board room.

“The fuck?” He snarled, whirling on his heels and in no mood for anybody’s shit right now. Jack blinked, eyes focusing on Brock’s equally furious face. He could almost hear the gears shifting in his head as the anger and adrenaline vanished, leaving him even more drained than before.

Brock stood in front of him, dark eyes sparking with rage. Jack sighed. Whatever had crawled up Brock’s ass and died, Jack didn’t want to have to deal with it right now. He was too tired.

“Look, whatever this is, can it wait till tomorrow?” Jack asked, a pinch more pitiful sounding than Jack had wanted it to. He was starting to get a headache. When Brock didn’t say anything, Jack huffed in annoyance. “Seriously man, I’m beat and—,”

“Don’t ever fucking do that again, you hear me?” Brock snapped, eyes flashing. Jack’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?” He asked incredulously. “I thought you were dead,” Brock continued heatedly. “Half way around the fucking world without me to watch your back.”

Jack felt all the anger vanish in an instant. So that was what this was all about. Brock hadn’t been on the mission because he had four broken ribs. He had argued until he was blue in the face but Hill and Rogers both hadn’t backed down, so Brock had been benched.

Brock wasn’t angry. He was scared. If Jack hadn’t been so damn tired he would have seen the difference. The way Brock’s jaw muscles trembled and how he had his hands planted firmly on his hips so Jack wouldn't see them shaking. The way his breath hitched every so often.

“Hey,” Jack said softly, taking a step closer. “I’m okay. We all came back in one piece. Well, Murphy lost a couple toes,” he amended with a small smirk, taking another step. “But more or less in one piece.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Brock said crossly, folding his arms firmly over his chest. “I’m okay,” Jack repeated, one last step landing him right in front of the shorter man. “Alright? Now are you done? Because I’m about to fall asleep standing up.”

Brock swallowed, his eyes flickering with a naked vulnerability that Jack hadn’t seen in a long time. “Don’t scare me like that again,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight self consciously. Jack could feel him starting to build up the walls between them again. He hated it when the other man did that.

He reached out on impulse, grabbing Brock by the back of the neck and pulling him into his arms, mindful of the man’s ribs. “I’m okay,” he murmured into the man’s thick hair. “I’m okay,” he said again and Brock pulled away.

And then suddenly Brock’s hand was fisted in his shirt and Brock’s lips were against his.

It all happened so fast that Jack wasn’t entirely sure he hadn't just imagined it. He had been up for something like three days straight now, he could be at the hallucination stage now.

Brock jerked back like he had been electrocuted, eyes wide in panic. “Shit,” he exclaimed, like he was as surprised by the kiss as Jack. “Sorry, I didn’t…I wasn’t thinking…I…fuck,” he stuttered, tripping over his feet in his hast to get away from Jack. “Just forget that happened, I didn’t mean—,”

“Just shut up,” Jack whispered, stepping forward and sliding a hand to cup the back of Brock’s skull as he eased his lips back over the shorter man’s. It was gentle and a little hesitant and Brock’s hands fluttered against Jack’s chest like he wasn’t really sure what to do with them.

As Jack felt Brock start to relax under his lips, he grew bolder, sweeping his tongue across the shorter man’s bottom lip. He felt Brock’s hands settle firmly on his waist, sliding up Jack’s back to pull them chest-to-chest.

Finally Jack pulled away, resting his forehead against Brock’s, breathing in his smell of gunpowder and Old Spice. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fucking do that,” Jack murmured. Brock huffed a laugh, sliding a hand up to brush a few stray locks that had come loose from Jack’s usually severe style.

“I had no idea,” Brock murmured, tracing his fingers along Jack’s bottom lip, eyes soft in wonder. Jack chuckled against his fingers. And then blinked a couple times because Brock’s face had gone blurry as his eyes unfocused against his will.

Brock must have seen it and now it was his turn to chuckle. “Let’s get you home,” he said, pulling himself out from Jack’s arms and headed to the door. “How about you come to mine and I’ll order Chinese while you pass out on the couch?”

He stopped at the door and glanced back, obviously seeing that Jack wasn’t following. Jack felt a small smile tug at his lips as he gazed at the dark haired man. Because now all he could see was Brock, no more lingering shadows dancing in his eyes. No more cautious, guarded looks.

It was just Brock.

And then he smirked, mischief sparkling in his dark eyes. “You comin’?” he asked with raised eyebrows. “Or do I need to haul your ass out of here fireman style?”

Jack mentally shook himself, focusing back on the man in front of him. “Naw,” he drawled, stalking towards Brock with a predatory smirk. “That’s more your style, Sleeping Beauty.” For a moment he worried he had crossed a line for a moment as Brock glared but then the man jabbed a finger against Jack’s sternum, eyes sparkling with humour.

“You ever tell anyone about that and I will show you no mercy," he growled.

"Oh yeah?" Jack’s smirked as he pushed himself up behind Brock before he had a chance to open the door. His hand gripped Brock’s hip possessively as he crowded against the shorter man, feeling him shiver as his scruff rasped against the side of Brock's neck.

“Is that a promise?”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the awesome and kind feedback! I'm glad you're all still enjoying what I'm posting. You're the reason I keep doing it!


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